


For the Good of the Humankind

by toyhto



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crack, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: ”Just remember,” Waverly says, looking at them over his cup of tea. “You don’t need to have sex.”
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 64
Kudos: 327





	1. For the Good of the Humankind

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally saw this movie and loved it. 5/5 for attractive idiot dudes who are oddly competent and probably in love.
> 
> You can say hi to me on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!

”Just remember,” Waverly says, looking at them over his cup of tea. “You don’t need to have sex.”  
  
Five minutes later, they leave Waverly’s office – a backroom of a very innocent-looking flower shop – and go back to their safe house – a flat in the apartment building where all the other tenants seem to be at least in their sixties. Everything is perfectly clear. The mission is going to be a little boring, probably almost dull, it’s going to demand patience and careful planning and probably not much violence, and they’re going to be able to handle it themselves, even without Gaby, who’s busy in London with something Waverly doesn’t want to discuss with Napoleon and Illya for some reason. As if they aren’t trustworthy.  
  
But there’s one good thing about this mission. Napoleon and Illya are supposed to pretend to be a couple. Napoleon isn’t exactly sure why, because he kind of got distracted at that point. He probably should have asked later, but he wasn’t going to let anyone know he had got distracted. Besides, he’s excellent at improvising.  
  
Illya, however, seemed a little worried when Waverly started talking about the two of them faking a relationship, and now he still looks worried. They do their coming-home routine: Illya checks the kitchen and the bathroom, and Napoleon takes care of the living room and the bedroom, in case someone murderous is waiting for them. Last night, Napoleon slept on the sofa, slightly irritated about the fact that there’s only one bed. Now it’s making perfect sense. Also, there’s not anyone hiding under the bed, so he goes back to Illya, who’s obviously trying not to look uncomfortable. That’s sweet.  
  
“We should probably have sex,” Illya says.  
  
Napoleon clears his throat. Well, that’s not what he was expecting, but he’s not going to let the surprise show on his face. “Of course,” he says politely and then blinks. “We should?”  
  
“Yes,” Illya says. At least he’s taking this seriously. But to be fair, he always takes everything seriously, far too seriously to Napoleon’s taste. He’s kind of been waiting for Illya to lighten up a little, maybe smile once in a while, but that hasn’t yet happened.  
  
Napoleon opens his mouth to point out that Waverly explicitly told them they don’t need to have sex. Then he thinks again. “I see,” he says.  
  
“It’s good to be prepared,” Illya says.  
  
“Indeed,” Napoleon says. It’s not as if this mission is extremely important, though. Or difficult. At all. “This is a difficult mission.”  
  
“Yes,” Illya says, staring at Napoleon. He looks about as eager to have sex with Napoleon as he would be for a quiet retirement in the States. “It’s important that our relationship seems convincing. Therefore, we should have sex.”  
  
Napoleon nods. Surely Illya is aware that not all relationships include sex. There’s no reason to say that out loud. “Of course.”  
  
“It would be very embarrassing for you, if we failed this mission and it turned out we failed because we didn’t have sex.”  
  
Napoleon clears his throat. “Embarrassing for _me?_ ”  
  
“Yes,” Illya says, staring at him. It looks like a challenge.  
  
“That’s not going to happen,” he says. He has had this funny feeling around Illya since the first time they met and Illya almost beat him, and the second time they met and Illya kind of had the upper hand of him when they wrestled in the public men’s bathroom. It’s like something is itching under his skin every time he’s with Illya. He’s been thinking that maybe he’s allergic. “We aren’t going to fail,” he tells Illya now, “because we’re going to have sex.”  
  
“We are?” Illya asks, as if he’s not convinced of Napoleon’s skills in that area. That’s weird. He’s certainly been listening often enough through a wall of one hotel room or another as Napoleon has proved his skills in bed. “When?” Illya adds. Maybe he thinks Napoleon is going to bail out.  
  
“Right now,” Napoleon says. He’s not going to _bail out._ He’s an _exceptional_ Special Agent and also very good in bed and not intimidated at all about Illya’s height and face and body and incapability to smile.  
  
“Right now?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Illya checks his watch and then looks at Napoleon again. “It’s three in the afternoon.”  
  
“I can have sex at three in the afternoon,” Napoleon says, trying to sound convincing. “Can you?”  
  
“Of course,” Illya says, not looking convinced. “Alright.”  
  
“Alright?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So, we’re having sex?”  
  
“Yes,” Illya says.  
  
“Right now?”  
  
“You said you can have sex at three in the afternoon,” Illya says.  
  
Napoleon clears his throat. Yeah, he said that. He remembers. And he meant it. It just seems a little difficult to move from talking about sex to actually having sex. With Illya. He’s going to have sex with _Illya._ That’s just… that’s a little bit…  
  
“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Illya asks. He looks like he’s mentally preparing for a fight, which coincidentally is a very good look on him, so that’s good. But it also might mean that he’s a little nervous about this. Napoleon personally is never nervous about anything, only now he finds that it’s a little difficult to meet Illya’s gaze.  
  
“Why aren’t _you_ doing anything?” he asks and then clears his throat. “Maybe we should talk about it first.”  
  
Illya grunts in a way that probably suggests he doesn’t want to talk about it but unwillingly agrees with Napoleon. Napoleon shouldn’t feel proud that he’s become quite an expert at reading Illya’s expressions during the time they have been working together. After all, he’s an expert at almost everything. But still he can’t help feeling particularly happy about this one area of expertise.  
  
“Have you done it before?” he asks Illya, looking at the clock on the dresser.  
  
“Had sex? Yes.” Illya is quiet for a few seconds. “You meant…”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“With a man.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“No,” Illya says, looking at the opposite window. “Have you?”  
  
“No,” Napoleon says and then clears his throat. “But of course I know how to.”  
  
“I know how to, too,” Illya says, sounding a little hurt. “It’s not like it’s difficult.”  
  
“Yeah,” Napoleon says and then thinks about it.  
  
Illya looks like he’s thinking about it, too. “Do you think it’s difficult?”  
  
“No,” he says slowly, because there’re moments when Illya needs him to keep his optimism, and this is certainly one. It’s deeply upsetting that he’s faltering like this. He takes a deep breath. “I think.”  
  
“From what I understand,” Illya says, crossing his arms on his chest, “one of us is supposed to put his…”  
  
Napoleon crosses his arms on his chest, too. Illya might be the taller one but he’s the one with better arms, and he’s not going to let Illya forget that. “Penis,” he says, when Illya still seems lost with words.  
  
“Yes,” Illya says, “ _penis._ So, from what I understand, one of us is supposed to put his penis in the other one’s…”  
  
“Ass.”  
  
Illya coughs. Napoleon looks away. Perhaps his allergy is getting worse.  
  
“I don’t think there’s any obligation to put anyone’s penis in anyone’s ass,” he says. It’s unfair that Illya manages to look both so _manly_ and a little bit nervous at the same time. Also, there might be something wrong with Napoleon’s intestines. He has this funny feeling inside again, and it’s not getting any better. “We could do something else,” he tells Illya. “Like, have different kind of sex.”  
  
“No,” Illya says, “no, I’m not intimidated by this.”  
  
“Of course not,” Napoleon says quickly. “I’m not either. We’re both Special Agents.”  
  
“Yes,” Illya says. “We can do this.”  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon says.  
  
Illya is quiet for a second. “How?”  
  
“I guess,” Napoleon says, because sometimes you need to be brave and take one for the team, “I guess we could just do it.”  
  
Illya frowns.  
  
“Maybe start with taking our clothes off,” Napoleon says, “and then we should probably decide who’s going to do what, and then we should just… do it. Have sex. As you said.”  
  
“Who’s going to do what,” Illya repeats in his accent that Napoleon has grown quite fond of. It’s a mystery why. “You mean, which one of us is going to put his penis in the other’s ass.”  
  
Napoleon nods. “Exactly.”  
  
Illya stares at him.  
  
“Alright,” he says, taking a deep breath. “What about this? You take the top, I’ll take the bottom.”  
  
Illya blinks at him.  
  
“You put your penis in me,” he explains.  
  
“I understood that,” Illya says. “I just…” Then he seems to stop to think about it. Napoleon waits. Obviously, there’re a lot of things he’s never told Illya about and is never going to, and one is that even though he hasn’t had sex with a man before, he _has_ tried pushing his own fingers into his ass. It happened one Sunday afternoon when he was feeling both sexually adventurous and frustrated at the same time, and so he got a little creative while jerking off.  
  
After that, he’s tried it multiple times. Once, he managed to push three fingers in, but then he couldn’t hit the spot in his asshole that to his knowledge is the reason why people stick anything into their assholes, so that was a disappointment.  
  
Illya, however, has big hands and long fingers.  
  
Not that this is about Illya’s fingers. Or Napoleon’s asshole. Because it’s not. It’s about the mission. They’re doing this for the good of the humankind.  
  
“You’re going to let me put my penis in your ass?” Illya says, sounding more than a little confused. It reminds Napoleon of the time when he tried to make Illya eat a hamburger.  
  
“Why, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Illya stares at him. “I was considering that I might negotiate about it.”  
  
“Well, maybe we’re going to need to have sex again later,” Napoleon says. “Then we can negotiate. But today, I think we should do it this way.” He starts taking his clothes off, happy that they managed to talk about this and get everything cleared out. This is going to be a little awkward, hopefully very satisfying, and also it’s going to make a good story. Unfortunately, Illya is never going to let him tell that story to anyone, but Illya’s not going to be able to stop him from thinking about it.  
  
Then he realizes that Illya’s just looking at him and not getting naked.  
  
“Are you going to keep your clothes on?” he asks.  
  
“You took your _socks_ off,” Illya says.  
  
Napoleon glances at his feet. He has, indeed, taken his socks off.  
  
“I thought,” Illya says, pointing at his crotch, so that’s where Napoleon glances at next. “I thought I’d just open my zipper.”  
  
Well, that’s perfectly practical. “Absolutely not,” Napoleon says. “This doesn’t count as sex unless we’re both completely naked and I can see your dick. That’s how it goes.” He realized a while back that he has never seen Illya’s dick, and isn’t that weird, because they’re always together these days.  
  
“Really?” Illya asks, his face perfectly serious now.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Alright, then,” Illya says and starts taking off his clothes. Napoleon stares. So, he was right. Illyan’s dick _is_ just about as nice as the rest of him. A nice, slightly intimidating, Russian dick that’s about to be in Napoleon’s ass soon enough. What a peculiar day this is. But in a good way. Probably.  
  
  
**  
  
  
One thing that Napoleon remembers from when he tried to push his own finger into his ass for the first time is that it was surprisingly difficult. He hadn’t been waiting it to be. Stuff goes out, stuff goes in, shouldn’t take much more effort. But it turned out the ring of muscles around his entrance seemed to think his finger wasn’t supposed to go in there, and it took quite a while to prove it wrong. The process wasn’t entirely pleasant, either, and a few times he wondered why the hell he was trying to stick his own fingers into his ass. It turned out to be a good choice in the end, though.  
  
Now he’s kind of wondering why the hell he decided to let Illya put anything into his ass. And Illya isn’t even doing anything yet, no, he’s just arranged Napoleon on his knees onto the bed, and now he’s sitting behind Napoleon, taking deep breaths like a KGB agent who’s about to stick his finger into his agent friend’s ass and is having second thoughts about it. Or maybe he’s just nervous. Or maybe he doesn’t like Napoleon’s ass. Well, that would be disappointing. And a surprise, because objectively speaking, there’s nothing wrong with Napoleon’s ass.  
  
“Hey,” he says, his face still pressed against the pillow and his ass in the air, because Illya is supposed to do something about it, “are you ready?”  
  
“Are _you_ ready?” Illya asks in a voice that suggest he personally isn’t.  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon says and closes his eyes for a second. “Peril, don’t worry. I’ve done this before.” He pauses. “This part. Not all of it. I mean, I haven’t slept with a man, I just… I’ve had my fingers in my ass.”  
  
“You have?” Illya asks. Now he sounds slightly interested.  
  
“Yes. I wanted to know what it’s like.”  
  
Illya places his hand on Napoleon’s back. It’s huge, and somehow comforting. “What was it like?”  
  
“Good. Eventually. If you want, I can do it to you.”  
  
“No,” Illya says, “no, I’m going to do this. Just… are you ready?”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Napoleon says.  
  
“You don’t sound ready.”  
  
“Just stick your finger into my ass,” he says, and then he kind of regrets it, because for fucking once Illya listens to him and does exactly that. His finger is cold, and he’s using more force than he probably should be, and his hand on Napoleon’s hip is firm and big and his fingers are clinging into Napoleon’s skin in a way that kind of hurts a little bit, and he lets out a breath that sounds surprised, as if Napoleon’s ass wasn’t what he was waiting for. The bastard. The lovely bastard, who always thinks he’s right and better and bigger and well, he _is_ bigger, Napoleon can’t help noticing that. Even his dick is bigger, which is just unfair. Napoleon hates him, yes, he absolutely hates him, never would want to work with the idiot unless he can’t avoid it, never would want to do anything with Peril, what a terrible idea, let’s say, to climb onto the mattress and get on his elbows and knees for Peril and try to stay still while Peril is poking the walls inside his asshole with his lovely fingertip -  
  
“Alright?” Illya asks.  
  
Napoleon clears his throat. “Yeah. Stop talking.”  
  
“Does it hurt?”  
  
“No,” he says, but then a sudden urge to be honest hits him. Must be the allergy again. “It stinged a little bit when you pushed it there. But not anymore.”  
  
“Sorry,” Illya says, his hands going gentler. “I’m a little worried about how my penis is going to fit in there.”  
  
“Don’t say _penis_ when you’re doing that to me,” Napoleon says. “Say _cock._ ”  
  
“Cock,” Illya says.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“ _Cock._ I’m a little worried about how my cock is going to fit in there.”  
  
It turns out that Illya’s cock doesn’t indeed fit in there. It’s just too big. At that point, Napoleon’s legs are already trembling and his own dick is more than a little hard and he really wants to touch it, but he has a feeling that this is going to take a while. And he can be patient if he absolutely needs to. He’s an exceptional Special Agent, after all. He’s very good at his job, and he’s going to be able to keep his hands off his dick for a while longer, so that Illya can figure out how to shove his into Napoleon’s ass. They’re using oil from the kitchen but it doesn’t seem to do the trick, and Illya sounds frustrated and like he’s panicking a little already, and Napoleon feels like this has been going on for forever. If he wasn’t a professional, he would tell Illya to forget about his dick and push his fingers back and keep stroking the spot that made Napoleon’s knees buckle earlier.  
  
But he _is_ a professional.  
  
“Peril?”  
  
“Cowboy,” Illya says, but he sounds distracted.  
  
“Take a deep breath.”  
  
“Don’t tell me what to do.”  
  
Napoleon waits for a moment. Then he hears Illya take a deep breath.  
  
“I’ve been thinking,” Illya says slowly. “I think Waverly told us that we don’t need to have sex.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Napoleon says. “But we wanted to do this well, remember? We wanted to be prepared for anything. Our relationship is much more convincing now that we’re having sex. And it doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect at the first time. We can try again. You’re doing great, Peril.”  
  
“I’m really not,” Illya says. He sounds mortified. “I hate doing things that I’ve never done before.”  
  
“I know,” Napoleon says as gently as he can. “I _know._ But I need to tell you something. A moment ago, when you had two fingers in my ass and you brushed against the certain spot and I swore and almost fell on my face, well, that felt really good.”  
  
Illya clears his throat. “It did?”  
  
“Yeah. Definitely. So, I’m just thinking, if your fingers feel so good to me, what about your cock? Because it’s nice, Peril. It’s the nicest cock I’ve seen in a long while.”  
  
“I didn’t know you like cocks.”  
  
“I don’t. But yours is nice. And I’m sure you can put it into my ass. I have faith in you, Peril.”  
  
“I didn’t know that,” Illya says, taking a firmer grip on Napoleon’s hips.  
  
“Well, I’ve been trying to keep it as a secret.”  
  
Illya is quiet for a moment. “I would never tell you this because you’re already painfully vain, but you’re very attractive, Cowboy. And only averagely annoying.”  
  
Napoleon swallows. “Thanks, Peril. I really like the way you look. And the way you stare at me in horror. And everything about you, including your personality, even though I can’t understand why.”  
  
“Thank you,” Illya says, sounding confused.  
  
“And now, I need you to try to put your penis into me again.”  
  
“I thought we weren’t supposed to call it a penis.”  
  
“Call it whatever you want,” Napoleon says, “as long as you shove it inside.” He paused. “But add a bit more oil at first.”  
  
“I don’t like how oil feels on my penis,” Illya says.  
  
Napoleon is about to say that actually, calling it a penis might ruin this for both of them, but he doesn’t have time. He groans and bites his lip and then groans again, and Illya is disturbingly quiet and keeps pushing his penis deeper into Napoleon, and then pulls it out, and pushes back in, and repeats the procedure with familiar Russian efficiency. Napoleon closes his eyes. Oh, god. Oh, _god._ So, he’s going to ache tomorrow. And probably later tomorrow. And it’s hurting right now, because Peril’s dick _is_ big, and this feels a little bit dangerous actually, but mostly in a good way, and he’s going to have to ask Waverly not to make them pretend to be a couple again because there’s a chance that his ass can’t take it. And then suddenly he forgets about all this, because Illya wraps his fingers around his cock and tugs.  
  
“What?” he asks, not sounding completely coherent.  
  
“What?” Illya says, freezing, but his dick is still in Napoleon’s ass and his fingers on Napoleon’s dick.  
  
“What?” Napoleon says and then tries to take a grip of his brain. “Nothing. Nothing, just… it feels good.”  
  
Illya clears his throat. “I thought the whole point of sex is that it’s supposed to feel good.”  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon says. “Yeah. Exactly. That’s… can you just… I think you can fuck me now, Peril.”  
  
“Alright,” Illya says and starts fucking him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He’s been a trembling mess for a long time when he finally comes. But at least Peril is there with him. Peril is there to catch him when he falls on his face. Peril pushes a few more times into him and he can feel something warm and sticky dripping from his ass and down his thighs, and he kind of laughs because isn’t that funny. There’s Peril’s cum in him and on him, and his own cum on his stomach and thighs and who knows where, and all this is very messy in a way he didn’t realize it would be, and also there might be oil on the sheets, and he feels completely exhausted and very happy with himself. He was excellent at this, as he is excellent at almost everything. Very well done, Napoleon Solo, the best agent there is. Well done indeed.  
  
“Cowboy?” Illya asks, touching his face.  
  
“Peril,” he says, blinking. Illya is lying next to him on the bed. He’s flushed and lovely and manly and big and a little bit threatening and Napoleon’s favorite KGB agent in the whole wide world.  
  
“We had sex,” Illya says.  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon says. “The same time tomorrow?”  
  
“I think the morning would be better,” Illya says. “But there’s something else I’m thinking about.”  
  
“Really?” Well, that’s weird. Napoleon has a feeling that he personally isn’t going to be thinking about anything except Illya fucking him for some time.  
  
“Yes. So, we’re pretending to be a couple…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Maybe we should kiss.”  
  
He thinks about it. It makes sense. “Okay,” he says.


	2. The Gentle Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya's mother is in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was supposed to be a one shot, but I saw twenty minutes of this movie last night and then got from there to here. At this point, it's certainly possible that there's going to be more chapters, but don't hold your breath.

  
”I just want to make it perfectly clear,” Napoleon says, ”that we’re having sex.”  
  
Waverly looks slowly from him to Illya and back to him again. “You’re having sex?”  
  
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, we are.”  
  
“Great,” Waverly says, looking suddenly a little tired. Maybe he’s working too much. Or maybe he’s getting old. But Napoleon doesn’t have time to think about that too thoroughly. He and Illya came to Waverly’s new office – in the supply closet at what appears to be an illegitimate dental clinic – to hear about their new mission. There’s no time for small talk.  
  
“You asked us to pretend to be a couple for the mission,” he says to Waverly. Illya is standing next to him, so close that their arms brush against each other. Illya’s been working out lately but Napoleon’s arms are still more impressive. Two days ago, he asked Illya why the man even bothers trying. Judging by what happened in the bed that night, the question might have upset Illya a bit. Napoleon certainly should bring the topic up again, but not right now, because they’re standing in Waverly’s office in the midst of cleaning supplies, discussing important things. “And we’ve done what you asked,” he adds. “We’ve acted as a couple. We’ve had sex almost every day.”  
  
“Not when I had a flu,” Illya says.  
  
“Not when he had a flu,” Napoleon says and then turns to Illya. “Why didn’t we?”  
  
“I was sneezing all the time. It was not very arousing.”  
  
“I was aroused. And anyway, we could’ve improvised.”  
  
“Your ridiculous enthusiasm about improvising is going to get us killed one day,” Illya says, grimacing. That’s a good look on him, but then again, almost all looks are good on him. It must be something about his face. A Russian agent thing.  
  
“Anyway, there have been a few days when we haven’t had sex at all,” Napoleon tells Waverly. Back to the point. “But then there have been a lot of days when we’ve had sex more than once.”  
  
“Not at first,” Illya says, glancing at Napoleon. Napoleon glances back at him. It’s like a reflex. He can’t help it, just like he can’t help saying Illya’s name when they’re having sex. One time, Illya was angry about something Napoleon had said earlier and fucked him so slowly his voice went hoarse before he finally came, and the next day he sounded like he had caught a cold. “At first we only had sex once a day,” Illya says, “because Napoleon could not take it twice a day.”  
  
“It takes some getting used to,” Napoleon explains to Waverly. It’s good to be thorough. “But of course we are aware that there’re plenty of ways to have sex. It doesn’t always have to be that someone’s putting his penis into someone’s…” Oh. There’re chocolate biscuits in a jar on Waverly’s desk. He takes one.  
  
“Guys,” Waverly says, looking at Napoleon as if he’s wondering what the hell Napoleon is thinking. What Napoleon is currently thinking is the chocolate biscuit, so he slowly puts the biscuit back in the jar.  
  
“I assure you,” Illya says exactly like a stubborn idiot that he is, “our sex has been very convincing.”  
  
“I’m sure,” Waverly says, takes the biscuit jar and gives it to Napoleon. Well, that’s surprising. Maybe it’s an early Christmas bonus from the good work he’s done. “I specifically told you that you don’t need to have sex.”  
  
Napoleon takes a deep breath and glances at Illya. Illya looks like he doesn’t know what to say, a little like he sometimes does when he’s just finished fucking Napoleon and is lying on his back on the bed, naked and sweaty and glorious in a Russian agent way. Napoleon didn’t think that’d be his type at all but lately, he’s had to reconsider.  
  
He gives Illya the biscuit jar. Illya takes it.  
  
“And anyway,” Waverly says, “that was during the last mission. You were pretending to be a couple for the last mission. You don’t need to do that for this new one, and you certainly don’t need to tell me about your sex life.”  
  
“But we’re doing it for the job, sir,” Illya says, holding the chocolate biscuit. Napoleon makes a note that he’s going to make Illya eat the biscuit later. Illya has a habit of forgetting to eat while he’s stressed. That’s worrying.  
  
“Oh my god,” Waverly says for no reason whatsoever. Then he sighs and sits down in the chair that’s probably in the supply closet because it’s broken. It creaks worse than Napoleon’s joints did when Illya tried to fuck him in the bathtub. “You guys can certainly have sex, but I don’t want to hear about it. Can we just talk about the mission? Please?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
Ten minutes later, Napoleon and Illya ride the scooter to their new safe house. The house is alright but there were two cats included, and they’re quite needy. Two nights ago, when Illya and Napoleon were trying to fuck in their new bed, the cats kept disturbing them until they locked the cats into the bathroom. Illya seemed a little upset about that later and Napoleon had to pretend he didn’t notice. He’s found out that Illya doesn’t like it if he points out how sensitive Illya is, even though to be perfectly honest he kind of likes that. It’s especially nice when they’re having sex and Illya is worried about whether Napoleon is enjoying it.  
  
“That went well,” Napoleon says now, when they’ve checked that there’s no one in the house that wants to murder them, besides possibly the cats. And they can’t use weapons properly because they have paws instead of hands.  
  
“The mission seems simple enough,” Illya says. “Even for you.”  
  
Napoleon smiles at him. “Do you still have the biscuits?”  
  
“Yes,” Illya says and gives him the biscuit jar. “Did you want tea with them?”  
  
“Yes, please,” he says.  
  
“You can make me some, when you’re at it.”  
  
Napoleon bites his lip. “I thought you were going to make the tea, Peril.”  
  
“I never said that, Cowboy,” Illya says. “I’m busy.”  
  
“With what? I thought we were only going to fuck in the evening.”  
  
“I have to plan something,” Illya says, turns away from Napoleon and walks to the bedroom.  
  
Napoleon follows him. “What? What’re you planning?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Come on, Peril.”  
  
“Don’t call me Peril when we aren’t in bed. It’s distracting.”  
  
Napoleon opens his mouth, closes it and takes a deep breath. “Sorry. But please, tell me what you’re planning. Otherwise I’m going to be worried. You’re a KGB agent, after all.”  
  
Illya glances at him and then looks away. “Alright. I was going to talk about it to you anyway. My mother’s in town and I think you should meet her.”  
  
Napoleon blinks. “Your mother’s in town?”  
  
“Yes,” Illya says, walks around the bed and goes to the living room.  
  
Napoleon follows him. “I thought your mother was in Moscow.”  
  
“She was.”  
  
“How did she….”  
  
“She’s a KGB agent.”  
  
_Of course._ “Of course.”  
  
“I don’t know why you’re being so dramatic about this,” Illya says, walking to the kitchen. Napoleon follows. “It’s almost as if you don’t want to meet her.”  
  
“Of course I want to meet your mother,” Napoleon says right away. Then he thinks about it. “Why do _you_ want me to meet your mother?”  
  
“Well,” Illya says slowly, “we’re pretending to be a couple.”  
  
Napoleon clears his throat. “Yes, I’m aware. But –“  
  
“And my mother’s in town.”  
  
Napoleon nods. “Yes, I understand that, but –“  
  
“She doesn’t spend much time in Western Europe,” Illya says. Now he’s sounding angry. That could be either a good or a bad thing, depending on what kind of sex Napoleon is looking for tonight. But honestly, he’s a little tired, and he wouldn’t mind making love to Peril in the gentle way.  
  
“Illya,” he says, “I want to meet your mother. Of course I do. I just got surprised. Sorry. When am I going to meet her?”  
  
Illya stares at him for a moment as if he’s about to get tortured and Illya is the KGB agent who’s about to do the torturing. Luckily, he’s got used to that look. Sometimes he even enjoys it. Especially in bed, when he’s feeling a little adventurous. Not today, though, so it’s a little bit of a relief when Illya nods and looks away. “We’re going to meet her tomorrow at noon for lunch. I’m going to help you choose what to wear.”  
  
“I’ve got better sense of style than you,” Napoleon points out.  
  
Illya sneers in his own special way. It resembles laughter, but very distantly. Napoleon is growing fond of the sneer too, and that’s one of the more terrifying aspects of their fake relationship.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “You can choose what I’m going to wear. She’s your mother, anyway.”  
  
“Thank you,” Illya says and opens the cupboard doors. “Did you say you wanted tea with the biscuits?”  
  
  
**  
  
They fuck later that evening. By then, they have tricked the cats to the living room and closed the door, and Illya seems a little distracted but not angry, and Napoleon is quite tired but he’s also an exceptional Special Agent and perfectly able to have excellent sex even while somewhat compromised. Not that he’s stressing about it, because he kind of isn’t. He and Illya have been pretending to be boyfriends for two months now. Things are going smoothly. He isn’t worried about disappointing Illya, only when he finally has Illya’s cock inside him and Illya is still oddly quiet, he decides it’s professionally wise to get slightly worried.  
  
“Hey,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. What he sees behind his back is Illya’s flushed face.  
  
“Cowboy,” Illya says, sounding a little distracted.  
  
“Peril,” Napoleon says. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Of course I’m alright,” Illya says right away. Well, great. Now he’s offended and Napoleon is going have to make it up for him somehow. “What? Aren’t you? Is something wrong? Are you unhappy?”  
  
“No, not at all. Peril, can I turn around?”  
  
Illya is quiet for a few seconds. “What?”  
  
“On my back. We’ve done it like that before.” Once or twice, when they have been drinking alcohol. Normally, they both prefer to do it not facing each other. Looking each other in the eyes while fucking seems kind of… intimate.  
  
“Why?” Illya asks, sounding skeptical. “And why now? I already have my cock in your ass.”  
  
“I’m aware,” Napoleon says. “I want to see your face.”  
  
“You want to see my face.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t exactly hate it,” Napoleon says and then sighs. “Can you just pull out for a second?”  
  
Illya pulls out. He looks much more doubtful than he did that one time near Barcelona, when Napoleon asked him to jump from the plane. He sits on his heels and waits as Napoleon rolls onto his back and takes a few deep breaths. Well, this is weird. He’s just lying here and Illya is looking him in the eyes.  
  
“Alright,” he says. They should get back on with it. “You can put your cock back in my ass.”  
  
“Cowboy,” Illya says. “What’s it? Are you hungry?”  
  
“No,” Napoleon says, even though he kind of is. But he’s not going to stop the sex to have another supper, not when it’s Illya who’s in his bed. “Come on. Just fuck me.”  
  
Illya still looks doubtful but grabs Napoleon’s thighs and spreads them a little, settling in between them. He pushes his fingertip lightly against Napoleon’s hole and then pushes in, pulls out again and wraps his fingers around his own cock. Napoleon watches, because otherwise he’d have to look at Peril’s eyes and that might feel personal.  
  
But the thing is, lately he’s got a feeling that everything with Illya is getting a little bit personal.  
  
“Wait,” he says, and Illya stops immediately. He’s incredibly good at that, at taking instructions. Only once, when Napoleon had always died after having fallen into an aquarium tank with a shark in it, he didn’t listen and kept kissing Napoleon over and over again even though Napoleon told him to stop fussing about and fuck him already. But he supposes Peril was somewhat compromised that day.  
  
“What?” Illya asks now.  
  
Napoleon bites his lip. “Can I look you in the eyes? When you’re fucking me?”  
  
Illya stares at him as if he’s stupid or something. “Alright.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You don’t mind?”  
  
“No,” Illya says. “Now, are you ready?”  
  
He shifts closer to Illya on the mattress so that the tip of Illya’s dick is pressing against his entrance. “Yes. Go on.”  
  
“I’m perfectly capable of getting my cock into your ass without your help,” Illya says.  
  
“I know you are,” Napoleon says, looking Illya in the eyes. “Would you please do it now?”  
  
“I don’t know why I put up with you.”  
  
“Right back at you,” Napoleon says. He’s trying not to sound too fond, but he can’t help it, because Illya is pushing into his ass right now, and it’s different like this, when he can see every expression on Illya’s face. They’re both holding their breath. Illya looks incredibly focused and Napoleon kind of wants to laugh and also not, and he couldn’t anyway, because Illya pushes as deep into him as is possible and then stops altogether. He can feel himself clenching around Illya’s dick. His heart feels a bit tight too. It sometimes does. He licks his lips and thinks about how they’re going to kiss afterwards. Illya’s going to have his arm wrapped around Napoleon’s shoulder and he’s going to shift closer and closer until it’s almost automatic that their mouths should meet. Illya’s a good kisser. Very precise but gentle.  
  
“What’re you thinking about?” Illya asks, fucking gently into him.  
  
“Nothing,” he says but doesn’t close his eyes.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The next morning, Napoleon is oddly nervous. He doesn’t know why. It seems somewhat improbable that Illya’s mother would try to kill him. But after Illya has picked up the outfit for him ( _‘that tie doesn’t match with that shirt’ – ‘of course it does’ – ‘it’s of the wrong color’ – ‘my mother will love it’),_ he makes sure he has two guns with him. Illya glances at him but doesn’t say anything, and he tucks the guns away and then tells the cats to behave themselves while Daddies are out.  
  
When they are ready to leave, Illya walks to him, puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the mouth. “Thank you,” Illya says.  
  
Napoleon almost asks what Illya is thanking him for, but he doesn’t want to seem stupid. “You’re welcome,” he says and kisses Illya. This is going to go well. Illya’s mother is going to love him just like everyone else.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So, you are the man who’s pretending to be my son’s boyfriend,” Illya’s mother says. The way she’s looking at Napoleon subtly suggests that she doesn’t love Napoleon just yet. She sneers and turns to Illya. “Does he even speak Russian?” she asks in Russian.  
  
“Of course he speaks Russian,” Illya says.  
  
“Of course I speak Russian,” Napoleon says in Russian.  
  
“His accent is funny,” Illya’s mother says. “And he has a sharp chin.”  
  
“That’s not exactly his fault,” Illya says.  
  
“He’s a CIA agent.”  
  
“That’s not exactly his fault, either,” Illya says, and then both him and his mother look at Napoleon, frowning. Napoleon takes the fork and shoves his mouth full of very lovely Russian soup that they’re having for lunch. He doesn’t want to know what’s in it. But now that his mouth is full, it’s much less obvious that he doesn’t know what to say next. Also, he’s a bit upset. His accent isn’t _funny._ And his chin is _perfect._  
  
“Are you serious with this man?” Illya’s mother asks Illya.  
  
“ _Mother_ ,” Illya says.  
  
“Where would you live? He’s _American._ ”  
  
“That is hardly relevant. We aren’t going to retire for another fifty years.”  
  
“But what will all your uncles and aunts think? He’s _American._ ”  
  
“His accent is going to get better,” Illya says and clears his throat. “He’s very good at handling guns.”  
  
“Hm,” Illya’s mother says, still in Russian.  
  
“Napoleon,” Illya says, turning to him, “tell my mother about what you did for me last Wednesday.”  
  
Napoleon sips his wine. “Really?”  
  
“Not that,” Illya says, looking slightly frustrated in his own Russian way. “I meant, tell her about how you shot three gangsters blindfolded.”  
  
“It wasn’t anything special,” Napoleon says, because he’s a modest man. It was special. “I’m very good with my hands. Even while blindfolded. Illya knows that.”  
  
“It’s true,” Illya says.  
  
Illya’s mother doesn’t seem convinced, but before Napoleon can decide what to do about that – he _has_ a few tricks of how to make women believe the best of him, but most of them are somewhat unsuitable for this specific situation – she starts talking about the weather in Moscow. That goes on for something like twenty minutes. Every time Napoleon thinks the topic has now been discussed as thoroughly as possible, Illya asks something more about the weather in Moscow. After a while, Napoleon gives up looking interested and focuses on watching Illya instead. There’s something different with Illya’s hair today, something he probably did to impress his mother. Napoleon wants to push his fingers into Illya’s hair and mess it up. He’s probably going to, later. If they can get rid of the cats. And if there’s not too much Special Agent stuff that Waverly needs them to do. Oddly enough, they haven’t heard from Waverly since the briefing yesterday.  
  
After discussing the weather in Moscow, Illya and his mother start talking about the Russian winter and then about something that is probably either a very dull horror movie or Illya’s childhood. Napoleon finishes eating the odd Russian soup, finishes the wine, too, and reminds himself that he should ask Illya something personal later. Maybe in bed. Illya might be more responsive to personal questions while he’s fucking Napoleon. Yeah, that’s a good plan.  
  
Illya’s mother doesn’t say much more to Napoleon. But when they’re about to leave the restaurant, she pats Illya on the arm and says, “that American agent is looking at you as if he’s in love with you.”  
  
Illya sneers.  
  
“Of course I am,” Napoleon says. “We’re pretending to be a couple.”  
  
“Just be careful, darling,” Illya’s mother says to Illya, “and don’t catch anything from him. Especially his accent.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
On the way back to the safe house, Illya is oddly quiet. Napoleon pretends he’s not worried. It seems possible that Illya’s mother doesn’t love him, and maybe Illya’s the kind of a person who doesn’t want to pretend to be in a relationship with a man his mother doesn’t approve of. That would be exactly like Illya. So, when they are finally at the home and the cats are trying to climb onto them, Napoleon doesn’t know what to do. He takes his guns away from the holsters and puts them on the table with the cat who managed to cling into the sleeve of his trousers, and then he goes to the toilet. His chin is _fine._  
  
“Cowboy,” Illya says through the door a little later.  
  
“I’m in the toilet.”  
  
“You have been in the toilet for fifteen minutes.”  
  
Napoleon glances at the clock. “Thirteen and a half minutes.”  
  
Illya is quiet for a moment, probably embarrassed that he can’t read the clock. “Didn’t you like my mother?”  
  
_Oh._ Okay. Napoleon clears his throat. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean,” Illya says, “didn’t you like my mother?”  
  
Napoleon stares at himself in the mirror for a few more seconds, then opens the door and walks out of the toilet, only Illya is right there, so Napoleon ends up kind of colliding with him. He’s surprisingly tall from close distance. Napoleon takes a deep breath and puts a hand on Illya’s waist, and Illya grabs his wrist, takes his hand and entangles their fingers. Illya’s hand is a little sweaty.  
  
“It’s not that,” Napoleon says, blinking at their entangled fingers. It looks as if they’re holding hands. “I think she didn’t like me.”  
  
Illya sneers. “My mother doesn’t like _anyone._ You must not take that personally.”  
  
“Why did you want her to meet me, then? If you already knew she wasn’t going to like me?”  
  
“Of course I wanted her to meet you,” Illya says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t quite understand the question. “She’s my _mother._ And you are my… my CIA agent who’s pretending to be my boyfriend.”  
  
“True,” Napoleon says, squeezing Illya’s hand in his. “I still don’t get it.”  
  
“Well, you aren’t very clever, Cowboy.”  
  
“ _You_ aren’t very clever, Peril.”  
  
“Still cleverer than you.”  
  
“We’ll see about that.”  
  
Illya looks a little confused, possibly because Napoleon has wrapped his free arm around Illya’s waist. He normally does this only in bed.  
  
“What’re you doing now?” he asks Illya. It’s a little weird that Waverly hasn’t still contacted them.  
  
“I don’t know,” Illya says, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “What are _you_ doing?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Napoleon says. “I suppose we could do something together.”  
  
Illya nods slowly.  
  
“Like, go for a walk. I hear this is a nice city.”  
  
“You mean,” Illya says, “go for a walk just for… walking?”  
  
“We could also watch houses.”  
  
“Houses don’t need watching.”  
  
Napoleon sighs. “Just humor me, Peril.”  
  
For some reason, Illya does exactly that. They take a walk through the streets, watching the houses and the trees and the letterboxes and whatever there is to watch. Once in a while, Napoleon finds himself watching Illya’s face. He’s pretty sure Illya notices, being a Special Agent and all that. But Illya doesn’t seem to mind too much. And after they get back home and feed the cats, Illya takes his both hands and pulls him to the bedroom, locks the door, tells him to get naked and then fucks him in the bed, but in the gentle way.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I’m just going to say something first,” Waverly says, looking at them intensely, as if he’s worried or something. “I don’t want to hear about you two having sex.”  
  
“What?” Illya asks.  
  
“Why?” Napoleon asks.  
  
“I don’t need to answer that,” Waverly says and then sits down in the creaking chair. “It’s not that I have anything against the thought of you two being together. I can’t even say that I’m terribly surprised. I think you are a great match. You’re both surprisingly capable in some things and completely disastrous in others, and you both have a deceptively high opinion of yourself. I’m afraid you’re going to be happy together. But – and I must emphasize that this is important and I’m being serious – I don’t want to hear about your sex life when I’m working. That’s terribly distracting.”  
  
Napoleon glances at Illya. Illya glances back at him.  
  
“Oh,” Napoleon says to Waverly. “That’s _distracting._ ”  
  
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Waverly says. Now he just sounds tired. “Anyway, I have a task for you.”  
  
“Do you need us to pretend to be a couple?” Illya asks.  
  
“No,” Waverly says and then sighs. “Yes. Yes, I do. Please, pretend to be a couple. For me. But also, it would be very nice of you if you could find someone for me. His name is Danny Danger and he’s a very dangerous Italian agent who came to the town last night. I need you to find him, capture him, and question him.”  
  
“And to pretend to be a couple,” Napoleon says.  
  
“Yes,” Waverly says, rubbing his temple with his thumb. “Now, if you understood the task, please, go.”  
  
Napoleon and Illya go home, tape the picture of Danny Danger on the fridge door and talk about how they’re going to find the man. Then Napoleon gets a little distracted, because Illya is _right there,_ and Illya has certainly fixed his hair after Napoleon messed it up this morning. That’s just rude. He wants to push his fingers through it, kiss Illya on the face and rub his dick against Illya’s thigh, because that’s pretty much where he can reach if they’re both standing. And he thinks they should be. For now. They can do it again in the bed tonight. And possibly in the morning. And they could go for a walk again. And maybe eat in the restaurant, but without Illya’s mother. That would be almost like a date. Very good for two men who are pretending to be in a relationship. And also, there’s only ten months before their first anniversary. He should figure out what to give Illya. Illya’s taste is both bad and expensive, which might be a problem.  
  
“What are you thinking about?” Illya asks.  
  
Napoleon swallows. He should bluff. He can’t let Illya know he’s thinking about Illya’s anniversary gift, or else it’s not going to be a surprise. “Can you kiss me?” he asks.  
  
Illya frowns. “Sure.”


End file.
